Snapshots of a Quiet Life
by cerebel
Summary: Mohinder, Sylar and Molly. A family, of sorts. Not crackfic.
1. Chapter 1

The couple is clearly worried. The woman's mascara is applied too strong on one side; her eyes are lined in irritated red. She's been crying. The man's jaw looks as though it's glued on, and his tie isn't tied right.

Mohinder has learned – he knows how to recognize the signs, now.

"Can I help you?" Mohinder asks, with a reassuring smile.

"I hope so," says the woman, and her hand emerges from her bag clasped around a photo.

When Mohinder looks, his heart breaks. The girl is sweet, pre-teen, shy in her school picture. "Is she missing?" Mohinder asks.

It's not so far out of the question, as assumptions go. The ad in the phonebook says private detectives – specialty in missing persons. Guaranteed to solve any case faster than the police.

"We heard you could find her," says the man. Suspicious. Mohinder's eyes pass over him without a glance; he focuses on the woman.

"Of course we can," says Mohinder, "we deal with this all the time. Can you tell me a little about what happened?"

----

Molly wakes up with a splitting headache.

"Augh," she groans, her fingers threading in sleep-tossed brown hair.

"Molly!" comes the call, again, from the top of the stairs. From the storefront, above.

Molly squirms out from under the covers, throwing on a pair of jeans. "Hang on, Mohinder!" she calls, through the door, and runs a brush through her hair.

It doesn't make any difference.

She emerges at the top of the stairs, blinking. "What's the case?" she asks.

Two people – two clients, a man and a woman. Sad, anxious. The woman looks to Mohinder – he nods, encouraging.

She holds out a picture, to Molly. Molly curls her fingers around it, studying the face inside.

"It's my daughter," says the woman, choking back a sob. "Amelia."

"Eames," adds Mohinder. "Amelia Eames."

"Amelia Eames," murmurs Molly, then she shakes her head. It's not enough. "Can you tell me anything about her? What she was like?"

"This is a waste of time," grumbles the man.

Mohinder gestures for silence.

"She-she was very bright," the woman tries. "She was in the writing club, at her junior high. Just quit the band – it was the teacher, she didn't like the teacher. And she drew things."

Molly cocks her head to the side.

Behind her, she can hear Mohinder pulling the map down.

"There's no such thing as clairvoyance," snaps the man.

"She drew this one picture," says the woman, "of a snowglobe–"

Molly holds up a hand. That, that's enough, she thinks, but her mind is already working. Reaching. _Where are you, Amelia_?

The thumbtack is in her hand almost without her conscious thought, her hand tracking, tracking. Highway, highway, motel. A strap over her shoulder – leather, her palms sweaty. Sound echoes around her, hard floor underneath. Feet sore.

_Where are you?_

Molly's hand stabs into the map. "Smaller," she says.

Mohinder pulls out the more complete atlas for Arizona, and Molly flips through it.

"Here, she's at this airport, in Phoenix," Molly decides. "Mohinder?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Mohinder is already at the computer, typing. "I have the phone number. If you like, I can call airport security."

"She's at gate A14," says Molly. "Waiting to get on a connecting flight."

"You just found her?" gasps the woman. "How—?"

"That's what you paid for, isn't it?" asks Molly, with a smile. "We're not frauds."

"Ah, yes, I need airport security. There's a runaway in your terminal." Mohinder pauses. "Yes. Amelia Eames. Yes, thank you."

"Mohinder," says Molly, "can I…?"

Mohinder shoos her away.

Alone in her room, Molly falls back on the bed. God, her head is _pounding_ – finding that girl is worse than nails across a chalkboard. In fact, it's like nails across her _brain_. They aren't usually this bad – usually they fade an hour or two after she wakes up, and she can concentrate the rest of the day. Maybe it was the call the night before –

"Are you all right?" comes Mohinder's soft inquiry. "Molly?"

Molly opens her eyes, trying to ignore the sandpaper rasp of dry eyelids. "Just a headache, Mohinder," she says, forcing a smile.

His hand is cool on her forehead, comforting.

"I don't have a fever," says Molly, impatiently.

Mohinder ignores her, strokes her hair back from her face. "You're getting better, you know. Used to be you could barely find them on a map, now you can practically tell what they're wearing."

"Skirt," Molly says, "a full-length one, and one of those wrap tube tops that are in style these days. She had a leather backpack and three necklaces on."

Mohinder's hand stills. "You didn't say that."

"I see it, Mohinder," Molly tells him. "I see it all."

Mohinder takes a breath, and Molly steels herself. "Molly," he murmurs, "you're all right, aren't you? I mean, you're not abusing drugs, or anything—"

Oh, Mohinder. "The attempt at fatherly concern," starts Molly, "while _amazingly_ awkward, is kinda sweet." She shakes her head. "The only drugs I'm in danger of abusing are over-the-counter painkillers."

"You're sure?" asks Mohinder.

"I'm sure." Molly sighs. "And the third member of our happy little family unit is home."

Mohinder looks at his watch. "But he shouldn't be back until tomorrow," he protests.

"Whatever," says Molly. "He's coming downstairs."

Molly follows Mohinder to the living room, in time to see Sylar take the last few steps to the ground floor.

"You're back early," challenges Mohinder, crossing his arms.

"I got an earlier flight," explains Sylar, unclipping the gun holster from his belt.

"Did you at least make the catch?"

Sylar glances up, to the set of Mohinder's eyes. "I caught up with him just outside the Canadian border." The jacket falls, next to the gun. "He didn't put up much of a fight."

"Were you careful?" asks Mohinder.

"Is anyone going to believe him if I wasn't?" challenges Sylar. "You of all people know how Petrelli's people swallow any story about 'unusual abilities'."

"I suppose it didn't occur to you that Petrelli's people are the very people we want to avoid," snaps Mohinder.

Molly slips around them, heads to the kitchen.

"Are you _trying_ to pick a fight with me, Mohinder?"

Molly's headache throbs.

Mohinder sighs. "Of course not."

"Stop it," whispers Molly, but they both hear her, even though her voice is so soft she can barely hear it herself. "You're arguing like a married couple," she says, stronger.

"We're hardly a," begins Mohinder.

"Right," drawls Molly, taking the ibuprofen down from the shelf. "Sorry. You're arguing like a _divorced_ couple, which is probably closer to the truth."

"We were never a couple."

"You hate each other like one."

That shuts them up. Too fast. The ibuprofen comes open with a _snap_ – deafening, in the new silence – but when Molly shakes it, there's no rattle. The bottle is empty.

"_Fuck_," she blurts, without thinking about it, and lets her head fall into her hands.

"Here." Sylar's voice is quiet. "I went over the Canadian border when I was looking for the fugitive, picked up these."

"What is that?" asks Mohinder.

"Essentially, Canadian Tylenol," says Sylar. "There are differences in brand name, of course, and some in chemical composition."

Molly cups the bottle in her hand, scanning it. "Like what?'

"It has codeine in it," Sylar tells her. "It's illegal to sell over the counter in America. More effective than American painkillers."

Molly takes three.

"You shouldn't be taking that much," protests Mohinder. "Codeine is addictive."

"I _shouldn't_ be taking so much," echoes Molly, with scorn. "Well, you know what, it shouldn't hurt to use my power. Life's not perfect."

"You can say that again," sighs Mohinder.

----

Once Molly is gone, back in her room, Sylar collapses back on the couch, wincing. "Ah," and he inhales, slowly as he can.

"Are you hurt?" asks Mohinder, his voice twisting in concern.

"It's not bad," but Mohinder already has the first aid kit.

"What happened? Where is it?"

There's probably no use in protesting; Sylar tugs his shirt over his head, showing the bandage over his ribs. "It's okay," he insists, even as Mohinder cracks the kit open. "He took a shot at me, I deflected instead of stopping the bullet, and I miscalculated."

"You miscalculated?" Mohinder raises an eyebrow. "That's not like you."

Sylar shrugs. "Everyone makes mista—_ow_."

Mohinder peels the rest of the bandage off, hissing in sympathy. "You thought you could take care of this by slapping a bandage on it?"

"Works sometimes," laughs Sylar.

Mohinder swabs antiseptic over the scrape, his hands maybe a little less gentle than they could have been. "Did you stop by the precinct to vote, on your way home?"

Sylar nods. "Yeah."

"Who did you vote for?"

"Who do you think I voted for?"

Mohinder pauses, bites his lip. "Well, you do have a choice, you know."

"You think I'd vote for Petrelli?"

Mohinder shakes his head. "No, of course not."

"Mohinder," Sylar starts.

"I said no," says Mohinder, firmly. "I don't think you'd do that."

"Okay," says Sylar.

"Okay," echoes Mohinder, and there's a short silence. Mohinder brings out a tube of antibiotic ointment.

"Made any progress on the list?" asks Sylar.

"When could I have made progress on the list?" Mohinder takes a breath, his irritation fading. "You were gone, Molly has her studies, and someone has to take care of the business."

"We have to find them," says Sylar, his voice a little too intense. "What are we going to do, wait for Petrelli's scientists to find the formula?"

"They won't," says Mohinder. "They're years away from it."

"Are you _sure_?"

Mohinder presses the bandage to Sylar's ribs, letting the adhesive take hold. "No," he says, "I'm not sure." He shakes his head, just barely. "There just aren't enough hours in the day."

"How's Molly doing with her work?" asks Sylar, pulling his shirt back on.

"She's very bright," says Mohinder. "It's too bad we can't risk sending her to school."

"Yeah," says Sylar. "It is."

----

Dinner that night is pizza and coke, ordered from the local Papa Johns. After it arrives, Mohinder raises his cup. "One fugitive arrested and one runaway found," smiles Mohinder. "Cheers."

"We're two thousand dollars up," offers Sylar. "Cheers."

Mohinder laughs. "I'll drink to that."

"It's just soda, Mohinder," remarks Molly.

"Soda has chemicals which alter human physiology," shrugs Mohinder. "It's a drug, same as alcohol."

"Right," says Molly. "Whatever. Can we watch the election results now?"

"I don't know," says Mohinder, passing Molly a paper plate. "Have you finished your biology reading?"

Molly raises an eyebrow. "Like it matters. I suck at bio anyway."

"You do not," chides Mohinder. "You're very good at it."

"How very Freudian of you," says Molly, sliding into a chair. "It's called 'projection', Mohinder."

"Have you finished?" Mohinder asks, again.

"I have." Molly takes a bite of the pizza. "Now someone turn on the TV."

The television flashes on, as though of its own accord.

The reporter, a blond woman, flashes a huge grin at her co-anchor. "Well, not at all, Scott, I think that Petrelli is a surefire winner."

"You have to admit that Petrelli's polling has been spotty, at best," denies 'Scott'.

"The tough-on-crime position has been very popular," returns the woman. "Not to mention the situation with his brother—"

"Ah, yes, he has a human-interest angle," says Scott, "but there's no real substance there, and the people are going to see it."

"All right, that's all for now," and the woman turns to the camera. "This is FOX election-night coverage, and we'll be right back after these messages."

Sylar mutes the television with a wave of his hand.

"You know," says Mohinder, slowly, "if Petrelli wins, we might want to leave the United States."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" asks Molly.

"No, not at all," says Mohinder, "unfortunately. If he's in the Oval Office, there's no telling the resources he'll have – he'll find us, and when he does," Mohinder stops. "My research cannot fall into their hands, and neither can you, Molly."

"I wouldn't let that happen," says Sylar.

"You might not be able to stop it," snaps Mohinder. "You're not omnipotent, you know, no matter how hard you try."

Sylar's jaw works. "You know," he says, "there are a couple things we need at the store. Maybe I should go – go get them."

There's silence, until the door slams at the top of the stairs.

"I can't believe you," says Molly.

"Can't believe what?"

Molly crosses her arms, folding her legs underneath her. "Could you stop treating him like he's –"

"The man who murdered my father?" finishes Mohinder.

Molly leaps to her feet. "Don't you dare," she snaps, "don't you _dare _pull that card on me, Mohinder!"

"Molly—"

"How long has it been since your father died?" Molly cocks her head to the side. "And how long since we really let Sylar into our lives, and you _still_…" She takes a breath. "If you hate him so much, why is he even here?"

"Because he wouldn't take no for an answer," says Mohinder. "Because he said he'd protect us and he didn't leave, didn't ask for the list."

On the TV, it turns to election coverage again; neither of them make the move to un-mute it.

"Hiro's stabbing changed him," says Molly.

"Yeah, it changed all of us."

Molly sighs. "Maybe he doesn't deserve to be here, but we need him. You need him, Mohinder, and you hate that, and that's why you keep pushing him away."

Mohinder half-rolls his eyes. "Just because you've studied Freud doesn't mean you know everything about me."

"No," says Molly. "I know you because I've lived with you, for seven years."

Mohinder lifts his eyes to hers.

"You recover your trust by trusting people," says Molly.

"They're announcing exit polls from the East Coast," says Mohinder.

Molly takes her plate. "I'm going to my room."

----

"You and Molly had an argument?" asks Sylar, when he gets back.

Mohinder doesn't respond, his eyes fixed on the silent television.

"I'm sorry."

Mohinder shakes his head. "Don't say that."

"I am, though." Sylar crouches in front of Mohinder. "I'm sorry, Mohinder."

Mohinder closes his eyes. "You can't apologize for what you've done."

"It doesn't matter," Sylar tells him. "I won't stop trying." His hand rests on Mohinder's knee. "Mohinder. I won't."

Mohinder's hand slides over Sylar's. "I know."

----

"You know, he was different before Nathan died," says Mohinder. "He didn't want what he wants now. The extra powers were a burden to him – he didn't _collect_ them."

"You've told us," says Molly.

"It's true," Sylar adds. "He was noble."

"Well, we see where that got us."

"Turn it up," says Mohinder, waving at Sylar. "Turn it up!"

Obediently, the volume increases.

"And from exit polls, we're ready to declare Ohio – that's right, looks like Petrelli is in the lead, at 57 percent of the electorate. And that – that puts him over the edge, with 293 electoral college votes. Yes, that data is correct, and we're ready to declare the election.

"The next President of the United States, ladies and gentlemen, will be Peter Petrelli."

"That's…not good," says Mohinder, delicately.

"No," says Molly, "it's not."


	2. Chapter 2

Molly can count on one hand the number of times she's really used her gun.

Once, the first time, was when a schizophrenic burst into the PI office. He started raving about a conspiracy, and the CIA sending watchdogs after him. Mohinder had tried to calm him down, but it didn't work, and he hit Mohinder, knocked him unconscious.

Twelve-year-old Molly, taking the gamble that this guy didn't actually have any special abilities, pulled the gun from Mohinder's desk. When the guy charged her, she nabbed him one in the kneecap.

Turns out those lessons on the shooting range, back when Mohinder and Sylar both got their license to carry firearms, actually paid off.

After that, Mohinder forbade Molly to be anywhere near danger. Ever. Or, really, even involve herself in their casework.

That lasted all of a week.

The second time was tracking down a runaway in the depths of Los Angeles. In this case, the runaway was a teenage girl – Molly couldn't get a solid enough fix on her location, so Sylar took Molly with him.

It took them an hour and a half to find the girl, and about another three seconds to realize that her boyfriend was, in fact, extremely violent.

This was mostly because of him shooting Sylar several times in the chest.

Of course, it didn't actually work. Sylar was stunned, not dead – still, in the approximately four seconds it took for him to get up off the ground, Molly had already shot the boyfriend. Twice.

The third time Molly pulled a gun on someone, she pulled it on Sylar.

Neither of them ever mentioned it to Mohinder.

----

"There's a new store, opening next to the market," says Sylar, dumping grocery bags onto the counter.

Molly cranes her neck around, from where she's curled up on the couch. "What kind of store?"

"New Age," Sylar tells her. "But they have some nice jewelry."

"Oh, really," drawls Molly.

Sylar tosses her the paper bag. "I don't know if you have that one yet," he says, returning to the groceries.

"You're not fooling anyone," says Molly. "You know exactly which ones I have and which I don't."

Sylar lets himself smile, then.

"Just answer me this," says Molly. "Do you just give me these so you have an excuse to have your own collection?"

Sylar's hand rests on a small, square box. "I buy them for you," says Sylar. "Not for me."

----

In her room, Molly spills the chain into her palm, tracing the symbol with the tip of her fingers. Fehu, the rune of good fortune.

This started as an apology, she remembers. Sylar's guilt, Sylar's pain, and a little way to alleviate it. She kept them in a drawer, at first, but slowly, steadily they migrated. Until she bought a rack, started hanging them up around her mirror. And then, sometime between then and now, it became a part of her.

Molly stands back, regarding her entire collection. She has crosses – large, small, gold, silver, wooden, Celtic. She has old Viking runes, and a delicate filigree pentagram. Here and there, a Star of David. Symbols of hope, belief, passion from all around the world.

This is what Molly collects.

----

Inside Sylar's room, he unfolds the box with steady fingers.

He never feels right doing this. Taking them out of the packaging. It feels like stripping them naked, somehow – opening a part of the world that Sylar shouldn't be able to see.

Paper rustles as Sylar slides it aside. Cool glass, smooth in Sylar's palm, and a rough-carved wooden base. The snow globe flies from Sylar's palm, settling in, gentle and quiet, among the others on his shelf.

_I miss you_, Sylar thinks, in the drift of the fake snow.

----

Late that evening, when Molly comes back from taking a shower, she finds a watch on her desk. Her mouth twists.

She takes it in her fingers, hefts it a little, then holds it next to her ear.

_Tick…tick…tick…_

Molly frowns, and she pulls the back off, examining the watch's interior.

----

Mohinder's eyes burn, in the glare of the laptop. This is the only time he has a chance to work on his research – theoretical models, the possibility of a – well, not a vaccine, because that would imply prevention, and not a cure, because that would imply disease. A drug, to suppress the genetic anomalies, in case of more dangerous abilities.

Mohinder is afraid to even investigate this far. If Homeland Security, the Department of Justice, the State Department had access to his research, they could do untold damage.

They already have, with the preliminary versions of the list – though, it can't really help them. As far as he knows, no government researcher has managed to track the particular sites for the genetic mutation. Mohinder is the only one in the world who holds that secret.

And now it's two in the morning, and all Mohinder can do is stare at the code, scrolling past on his screen.

On a whim, Mohinder checks his old email account. He does it very rarely – it might be dangerous. His IP address could be logged, traced to a location – and that could put Molly in danger.

But every once in a while, he risks it. The emails there could be from those with special abilities, ones who read his father's book and tried to contact him, and right now, the list is Mohinder's most important work.

It hits Mohinder like a sack of bricks, straight to his chest. A simple email, eighteen words, no more.

This…this isn't from anyone with a special ability.

----

Sylar wakes up already sure that everything isn't as it should be.

He can't see Mohinder, but he knows where Mohinder is. The heartbeat is unmistakable – in the kitchen, of course – but Mohinder's breath has a rasp in it, an odd kind of hitch.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Sylar steps out to the living room, pausing in the doorway. "Mohinder?" Sylar calls, softly. Molly's heartbeat is muted, slow and long. She's still asleep, and he doesn't want to wake her.

Mohinder doesn't respond.

He's in the kitchen, perched up on the counter next to the stove. The cup of tea next to him is nearly full, and Sylar can tell that it's cold, from all the way across the room.

"Mohinder," says Sylar.

Mohinder shudders, and he drops off the counter, sliding to the floor, knees to his chest. "Go away," he says, muffled into the palms of his hands.

Sylar crouches next to Mohinder, reaching to Mohinder's wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. "What's wrong?" asks Sylar, softly.

"My mother is dead," Mohinder says, so softly. "She's—" He chokes, and Sylar hugs him, pulls him into an embrace. He expects Mohinder to pull away, twist free of his grasp, like Mohinder always does. He knows this, that Mohinder isn't ready, that he may never be ready to trust Sylar the way Sylar trusts him.

But, to his surprise, Mohinder turns his head in towards the crook of Sylar's neck, and he cries. Deep, sobbing gasps, defenseless and open. This far into the night, Mohinder's control must just be completely gone –

Sylar doesn't say a word, just rubs Mohinder's back, holds him close. Mohinder is mindless in grief, though, starting to become hysterical. If he doesn't have his own control, Sylar has to give him a chance to get it.

And so Sylar reaches in with his mind, to an artery, and he pinches it nearly shut.

Mohinder is unconscious in seconds, and Sylar restores the blood flow, letting the oxygen ease its way back into Mohinder's cells.

By the time Mohinder returns to consciousness, Sylar has moved him into his bedroom. More comfortable than the floor of the kitchen, anyhow.

Mohinder opens his eyes, still wet, and stares, without ever seeing.

"Do you want me to go?" asks Sylar.

Mohinder is still, for a long moment, and Sylar starts to get up. He won't stay where he's not welcome, as much as it hurts to be rejected, again and again and again.

"No," whispers Mohinder, finally.

If Sylar had a choice, Mohinder would never hurt. Ever. If he had a choice, Mohinder would be happy, would have a ridiculously easy life in some ridiculously beautiful place, and lots of friends, and lots of money, and work that he loves. If he had a choice –

Mohinder reaches out, with a, "please," and Sylar can't say no. He could never say no.

Eventually, Mohinder cries himself to sleep, staining the shoulder of Sylar's shirt dark with salt-water tears.

----

Molly wakes up early. Earlier than she usually does, anyhow, but there's something, something that makes her want to get up. Something that isn't right.

She listens, for a few seconds, trying to place it – and then she does. The apartment is silent. Mohinder should, at the very least, be up by now, starting to get the office ready for opening in half an hour. Sylar usually follows, come to think of it, and she can't hear either of them.

Molly's heartbeat starts to come faster, and she reaches for her gun.

First she checks Sylar's room – empty. The bed is disturbed, as though someone slept in it the night before. Molly clicks off the safety of the gun, her palms starting to sweat.

_Now isn't the time_, she tells herself, sternly, and takes a couple deep breaths before glancing into Mohinder's room.

She stops, in surprise.

Mohinder and Sylar are both in the bed, together – Mohinder curled into Sylar's side, his head on Sylar's shoulder, his arm around Sylar's waist. It looks a little uncomfortable, Molly thinks, but Mohinder is fast asleep, and he looks fairly content.

Molly glances up to Sylar, and meets his eyes. He's awake.

She gives him a questioning glance.

He returns it, barely nodding at her gun.

Molly grins, ruefully, and opens her mouth to say something. Sylar touches his finger to his lips, for silence, and Molly nods. She whispers, barely vocalizing, "Are you both okay?"

Sylar nods.

"I'll open the shop," she says, still so soft she can barely hear it herself, and eases the door shut, behind her.

Once it's closed, she can't help but smile.

----

When Mohinder wakes up, there's a crick in his neck, and his pillow feels suspiciously firm and warm.

Oh, right.

Mohinder rolls onto his back, stretching his spine.

"Morning," comes the voice – too cautious, far too cautious – from the man next to him.

Mohinder sits up, to regard Sylar.

"Are you all right?" asks Sylar, awkwardly.

Mohinder bites his lip. "No," he says.

"Oh."

There's a short silence.

"You know," says Mohinder, "I thought you were trying to seduce me, when you came back. The first time, after Hiro stabbed you."

He glances over at Sylar, who has pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Seductions don't usually last ten years," says Sylar, quietly. "And they don't usually involve raising a little girl."

"I know," says Mohinder.

Sylar watches Mohinder, a kind of guarded caution in his eyes, and Mohinder touches the edge of his cheek. He kisses Sylar, once, chaste and light.

Sylar keeps his eyes shut, for an instant afterwards – in shock, maybe; Mohinder feels a little bit of a smile grace his features.

"Come on," he says, getting to his feet. "Let's open the shop."

----

Molly steps up into the silence of the office lighthearted, for the first time in ages. This could change things – it could _really _change things, eliminate the tension between the two of them, maybe, or change it into something healthy –

Then Molly sees _him_.

Her first instinct is to shriek, but something stills her throat, something holds her fast. The world spins; she blinks, long and slow, and the floor rises to meet her.

----

It feels like a buzz at the edge of Sylar's senses. He doesn't really notice it, at first – he's too absorbed in euphoria, disbelief, but slowly, bit by bit, it penetrates.

He can't _hear_. He can't hear Molly, upstairs – can't hear Mohinder's heartbeat, can't hear…

Something is blocking his powers.

"Mohinder!" Sylar yells, and the world goes black.

----

Molly wakes with a pinprick, into her neck. She twists, in reflex, reaching her hand to her neck – but it stops, halfway.

She's cuffed.

Molly's fist clenches, and she can feel her heartbeat hammering. This is terrible, this is awful –

"Calm down."

Molly looks up, blinking against the room's light. The man is there, the one from before. The Haitian.

"What do you want?" she asks, trying not to let her voice tremble.

"The President wants to see you."

"We're in Los Angeles," Molly points out. "Not Washington, DC."

"Not anymore," is all the man says.

----

And so Molly is un-cuffed, and led, through fancy corridors and plush carpets of what she's rapidly realizing is the White House.

They got her all the way across the country, while she was unconscious. And Mohinder, and Sylar – they could be _anywhere_, and they wouldn't know where she is, and they must be so worried –

They stop in front of an office entranceway.

"You can go on in," says the secretary, with a reassuring smile.

"Go," says the Haitian.

Molly grits her jaw, pushes through the door in front of her, and then stops short.

She's in the _Oval Office_.

It's just like it looks in The West Wing – complete with the carpeting, the furniture setup. The man at the far end is facing away from her, out the windows.

Molly slams the door shut behind her.

Peter Petrelli turns and shoots her a grin. "Molly, it's great to see you again," he says.

"You're a lot uglier than you look on TV," says Molly.

Peter laughs, as though indulging a sub-par joke. "You don't have to insult me to get my attention," Peter tells her. "Have a seat."

Molly stays standing. "Where is Mohinder?"

"And Sylar, you mean?" asks Peter.

Molly tilts her head.

"They're in custody," says Peter. "Somewhere safe."

"Better be pretty damn safe," snaps Molly, "cause Sylar's going to break out. There isn't any prison in the world that can keep him locked up."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Fortunately for us," he says, "he can't use his powers when he's unconscious."

_Crap_.

"Then why aren't I locked up, too?" asks Molly.

"Well, that's the question of the day, isn't it?" Peter sits down, on the couch, and looks at her, his expression earnest. "I need your help, Molly."

"Forget about it," says Molly, flatly.

"I think you might want to reconsider that."

Molly swallows. Peter's voice – it _changed_, right then, to something colder, something different –

"Are you threatening me?"

Peter shakes his head, smiling again. "No, I wouldn't do that," he says. "I'm threatening your two – ah, adoptive fathers."

"What are you going to do to them?" asks Molly, cautiously.

"Sylar's murdered, I don't know, a few dozen people?" Peter shrugs. "Death penalty, probably. Mohinder Suresh might be a little harder, but I'll see what we can find."

"And if I do you a favor…?"

"They can go free," says Peter.

Molly shakes her head. "I don't believe you."

"Sorry to say this, Molly," laughs Peter, "but you don't have a choice."

Molly sits down, across from Peter. "Out of curiosity," she says, "what is it you want me to do?"

"Track down someone for me," says Peter. "You might call him your natural enemy."

A folder from his desk shoots into Peter's hand; he hands it to Molly.

"Claude Raines?" Molly glances through the folder. "I've never heard of him."

"You wouldn't have," says Peter. "He can turn invisible."

Molly raises an eyebrow. "My natural enemy. I see what you mean." She shuts the folder, looking up at Peter. "So, why me?" she asks "You can do everything I can, can't you? That's your power."

Peter's jaw clenches, and Molly's heart comes faster.

"So, there's some reason you _can't_," Molly reasons, tilting her head to the side. "Is it that you can't use my power? Can't steal it?"

"Are you done?"

Molly crosses her arms. "What's different about me, from all the rest of the powers you have?" She leans forward. "Only one thing I can think of. The nerve damage, from the disease that Mohinder cured. What is it, your power can't properly sense mine? That means you can't have it, right?"

Peter's eyes are pure poison.

"That must be _infuriating_," Molly baits. "Only one power in the world that you'll never, ever have."

The corner of Peter's mouth twitches. "So, you going to save Suresh and Sylar or not?"

Molly looks at him, for a long moment. "Yeah," she says, finally. "I'll do it."


End file.
